


Of Dogs and Decisions

by Johnlockiana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case, Dog - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockiana/pseuds/Johnlockiana
Summary: John is thrown for a loop when a rather boring case leads Sherlock to show interest in dating. As John's view of Sherlock - and their friendship together - changes, some decisions will have to be made.





	1. A New Case

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was for the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2016, dedicated to NotYourHousekeeperDear.
> 
> My prompt for this fic was to write a friends to lovers Johnlock, case-fic story with drama, friendship, fluff, romance and not too much angst. The fic should include these five words: Dog, TV, Bachelor, helicopter, Guardian
> 
>  
> 
> A great thank you to ukaunz for invaluable help in beta-reading the story.

It was Saturday afternoon at Baker Street. Sherlock was busy typing on his laptop, while John was flicking through the channels on the TV, hoping for something that could be deemed at least watchable. The week had been busy at the clinic and he felt tired. After hopping through the channels a few times, he ended up with last year’s holiday special of The Bachelor.

_Lovely. 42 years old and I’m spending Saturday night watching a rerun of a dating show._

"You know, if I was ten years younger, I would go on this show. I can’t seem to get any action as it is, perhaps I would have more luck as the eligible bachelor instead of the confirmed bachelor."

Sherlock glanced at the TV before giving John an odd look that he couldn’t quite decipher.

"Really, John? Pre-selected bimbos are your thing? Or would you try out your bisexual side for once, and go for men as wel  
John frowned. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock had picked up his - somewhat dormant - interest in men, but had stopped being surprised by Sherlock’s abilities a long time ago.

"Not sure I consider myself bi. I usually prefer women, some men are just the exception."

"I see." Sherlock returned to his typing. "What about me, then?" he said without looking up. "Do you think I’m bi?"

John was caught a bit off-guard by this question. Sherlock never spoke about his sexuality. But he quickly recovered, a skill he had learned quite quickly living with Sherlock.

"Nah," he said. "You’re gay."

"And how did you come to that conclusion?"

John smiled a little. "Because of your lack of interest in Irene. You were fascinated by her personality and she was clearly attractive. If you had been bi, you would have gone for it when she practically threw herself at you."

Sherlock looked up at that. "Not the worst deduction, I admit. However, just because I haven’t found any women  
sexually attractive so far, doesn’t mean I never will."

"Balance of probability, Sherlock," John teased.

"Black swan, John. Anyway…" Sherlock closed his laptop and swiftly got up. "We have a case."

John got up too, turned off the TV, and was putting on his jacket just as Sherlock finished tying his scarf.

"A woman named Sarah Poulson was murdered at the Orchard Theatre. No witnesses, no clues. Well… no clues Scotland Yard can find, which says very little."

They were out the door and hailing a cab before John could reply, though he knew that if Sherlock had any more details, he would be informed in the cab.

The theatre was closed off, but Lestrade and Sally Donovan were there already, and lead them in. A woman dressed in a blue skirt and a white blouse was lying face down in one of the makeup-rooms. It reminded John a bit of the pink lady from their A Study in Pink case.

What should he call this? A Study in Theatre? He shook his head. Bad pun. Also, he thought, it wasn’t a good sign that his first thought upon seeing a dead woman was what blog title he should use. He felt a small pang of guilt, and focused instead on Sherlock, who had his magnifying glass out and was crouching down next to the woman’s left hand.

"Ah, yes, there we go," he said triumphantly. With a pair of tweezers he pulled out a small piece of fabric from between the woman’s fingers. The fabric was thin and pale green.

"What’s that?" John asked.

Sherlock quickly produced a small vial from his pocket, dropped the piece of fabric into it and put the lid back on.

"That, I believe, is a piece of fabric from the killer. Most likely a scarf, considering the texture and colour of the fabric. There were fibres of this under her fingernails, her clothes and hair are messy, it’s clear she put up a fight."

"A scarf, you say? Helen has a scarf like that," a voice rang out.

Both Sherlock and John turned towards the source of the voice - a blond man seemingly in his early 30s. He gave them both a friendly smile before extending his hand to Sherlock.

"David Milhouse," he said. Sherlock shook his hand thoughtfully. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"

"Yes, good deduction seeing as Lestrade introduced me when we entered the room. Helen, you said?" Sherlock replied.

John cringed inwardly, but the man – David – only laughed.

"Good point. Yes, Helen, she is one of the other actresses. She used to wear a thin, green scarf."

John noticed that Sherlock’s face fell a little. He tried to hide a smile. This case was becoming too simple for Sherlock’s taste.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, probably to complain about the case having fallento a 2 and was way below what he would bother to spend time on, when Sally walked up to David with a photograph.

"Is that Helen?" she asked.

John leaned over to have a look. The photograph showed a young woman with long, brown hair – and a light green scarf.

"No," David said. "That’s Beth. Elisabeth. She’s also an actress. I didn’t know she had a similar scarf."

Sherlock frowned and looked at the picture. John could see him thinking.

All of a sudden Sherlock twirled around, all coat and long legs, and hurried towards the exit. "Gotta go, have a case to solve."

"Wait!" Lestrade called. "Don’t you want to talk to Helen and Elisabeth?"

"No need," Sherlock called loudly, already out the door. "But do send samples from both scarves to Molly at Bart’s as soon as possible."

Suddenly, David jogged after him out in the hallway. John couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but only a few minutes later David came back in again. Alone, but looking very content about something.

John hurried out the door after Sherlock.

"Where are we going?" he asked, as they were striding down the empty road.

"You can do what you want, but I am going back to Baker Street to get ready."

"Get ready for what?"

"David asked me out for dinner."

John stopped.

"Dinner? For the case, you mean?"

After a few steps Sherlock noticed that John wasn’t following, and so he stopped as well. "No, not for the case. I believe it’s called a _date._ I thought you would be quite familiar with the concept."

He gave a little smile and turned to hail a cab.

John felt a knot tightening in his stomach, watching Sherlock heading into a cab and leaving. His thoughts went to David. Young, attractive, easy-going. Come to think of it, David looked a bit like himself, when he was ten years younger.

Sherlock was going on a date with someone who looked like a younger, more carefree, version of himself. John wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or disgusted by the idea. Mostly the latter, he concluded, as he walked towards the nearest cab line. At least according to the sinking feeling in his stomach.


	2. Not a jealous flatmate

It was nine in the evening. John was trying not to focus too much on Sherlock who was fussing over his clothes and hair. Pre-date nerves, he never would’ve thought he’d see that from Sherlock.

"I thought you didn’t do dates," he couldn’t help saying.

"I don’t. But you’ve been moping for months about how horrible and boring it is without having a date. So when the opportunity presented itself with someone who is less of an idiot than the rest of them, I thought I would give it a go."

He turned around to John with a flourish. "Well? How do I look?"

John swallowed. Sherlock had managed to tame his curls in a way that looked both stylish and natural - John wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through them. He was going for his purple shirt and black suit, and looked absolutely riveting. He had a slightly nervous energy around him which only added a touch of vulnerability to his usual confident and charismatic persona.

David wouldn’t know what hit him, the lucky git.

"You look fine," John said finally. He waved his hand dismissively before turning back to the TV. "Have fun!"

He couldn’t stand to look at Sherlock anymore without giving himself away.

"Hopefully I will," Sherlock jogged down the stairs. "Don’t wait up," he joked before the front door slammed shut behind him.

John closed his eyes. What was happening? Sherlock didn’t date. He had made that clear the first evening they went out to Angelo’s, and had never shown any interest towards anyone ever since.

And, yeah, there had been a tension of possibilities between them for a long time. Long looks, a brief touch. So much that was felt and hinted at, but it was always unspoken. And so John had always assumed that he had all the time in the world. Because it would either be him or no one for Sherlock, he had naively thought.

Since when had he ever been this full of himself? He had thought Sherlock was this insecure outcast that would never dare to date anyone. John felt slightly ashamed of his own thoughts.

He’d had his chance, for years, and he had spoiled it. And he was not going to sit here and hover like a disapproving mother (or jealous flatmate) until Sherlock came home, he decided.

So John got up, made himself a late dinner that he enjoyed in front of the TV. He spent the rest of the evening watching late night shows and very clearly not thinking of Sherlock. At midnight, he went to bed – he was _not_ going to be sitting up when Sherlock came home.

When John woke the next morning, he padded downstairs to an empty flat. His stomach in tight knots, he wasn’t sure if he was just being jealous or very worried. What if David was some psychopathic killer? Perhaps stalking Sherlock for years?

John shook his head. He was getting paranoid. Sherlock was probably… he tried his best to not think about a just awoken Sherlock with bed-tousled hair and sleepy eyes in someone else’s bed. Nope, not going there.

His mobile phone gave a text alert. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it was from Sherlock. _I’ve become a sodding teenager,_ he thought to himself in disgust as he opened the text.

_Meet me at Bart’s at 0930. SH._

Stayed the night, then. John swallowed, feeling as if he had lost something he never had. He typed back an affirmative before heading for the bathroom. Getting ready for a shave and a shower – and to play the role of the teasing and supportive flatmate.

As expected, when John entered the lab, Sherlock was already there. Dressed in the same clothes as when he had left yesterday.

John cleared his throat. "So… date went well then, I take it?"

Sherlock didn’t look up from the microscope. "It wasn’t as dreadful as I had expected it to be. David is surprisingly okay as far as company goes."

John turned to look out the window, nodding. "That’s good. So you seeing him again, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably. Look here, John. I’ve analyzed some of the fibres from the piece of cloth with samples I got from the two scarves. It’s clear that the fibres stem from one of them. I can’t say which one, though, they are remarkably alike in age and wear."

He frowned in frustration.

John came over and looked, although he didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. "So no luck there, then? Too bad the fibre is too small to look for fingerprints," he said.

"Yes, that is true, there are no finger…" Sherlock stopped suddenly, his eyes wide.

"John, you are a genius! _Of course,_ that’s how we do it!" He spoke in a hurry as he put on his coat and scarf. "Tell Lestrade to bring the two women to Regent’s Park. Let’s meet up at two o’clock, I’ll text you the details."  


And before John could answer, or ask what he had said that was so smart, Sherlock was gone.


	3. Dogs and decisions

At one o’clock in the afternoon, Lestrade had managed to gather all his troops, and the two women, outside his office at New Scotland Yard.

"You sure you don’t know what’s going on?" Lestrade asked – for the third time since he had got there, John thought.

"No, as I said. I don’t know any more than you do."

A text message beeped in.

At one o’clock in the afternoon, Lestrade had managed to gather all his troops, and the two women, outside his office at New Scotland Yard.

"You sure you don’t know what’s going on?" Lestrade asked – for the third time since he had got there, John thought.

"No, as I said. I don’t know any more than you do."

A text message beeped in.

_Meet me at Griffin Tazza at 1400. Try not to bring Anderson. SH_

John frowned at the message. He knew where that was, they had been there once before on a different case. But why couldn’t they have gone together? Sherlock was acting a bit strange on this case, he thought. But only way to find out was to be there. So John showed the message to Lestrade and they headed out.

Half an hour later, they were all stationed near the giant statue - a stone bowl supported by four huge lions. Lestrade, David and a few other officers were there. John tried not to glare too much at David. In fact, he tried his best to ignore his very existence. The two women were there, of course, looking slightly confused. Sherlock was not to be seen.

After ten minutes of waiting, Lestrade was getting impatient. "Sherlock not coming?"

Before John could reply, they finally saw Sherlock strolling towards them. With a dog, John noticed with surprise. Sherlock walked up to them with what looked like a rather large spaniel. Brown and white with long ears and a constantly wagging tail. John wasn’t sure exactly what breed it was, but it was bigger than a Cocker Spaniel, the only spaniel breed he knew.

"This is Toby," Sherlock said by way of greeting.

"You brought a dog?" Lestrade asked with scepticism.

"A highly trained scent dog," Sherlock replied.

John looked curiously at Toby, who greeted him by coming up to him with his greying muzzle and giving a polite sniff.John petted him while looking at Sherlock.

"Where did you get him from? And why have you brought him here?"

"My thoughts exactly," Lestrade chimed in.

Sherlock looked from one to the other.

"Isn’t that obvious?" he asked. "To solve the case, of course."

When he saw Lestrade’s and John’s blank looks, he sighed heavily.

Sherlock got to his knees, petted an eager Toby a bit and retrieved the vial from his pocket. "Toby is trained to track and alert on the scent of a particular person after being given a sample of that person’s scent."

John was finally getting it.

"So if you let Toby sniff the fabric…"

"…he will indicate whether it belongs to Helen or Elisabeth, yes," Sherlock finished, sounding pleased that John had reached the right conclusion himself. John tried to ignore the small feeling of pride that gave him.

Sherlock opened the vial and presented it to Toby, who sniffed eagerly. Lestrade and David looked upon the proceedings curiously. Sally looked a bit dubious, whereas Helen and Elisabeth were too far away to have heard what Sherlock and John had been talking about.

Toby had clearly gotten as much of the scent as he needed, though John was unsure how Sherlock knew that, and he screwed the lid back on and pocketed it. Sherlock stretched his arm out towards the two women and commanded "Seek!"

Toby sped off, his nose to the ground, sniffing loudly. As the dog worked his way towards the women, David came up next to Sherlock. He leaned over and whispered something in Sherlock’s ear, John couldn’t hear what. Sherlock whispered something back and David nodded with a smile.

John felt slightly uneasy. David seem to stand a bit too close to Sherlock, and Sherlock wasn’t moving away. John shook his head. He was acting like a jealous teenager, and this was not the time nor the place. He smiled grimly at his own ridiculous thoughts, and returned his focus to the dog.

Toby was now walking back and forth between the two women, sniffing eagerly. Suddenly, he lay down flat in the grass next to Helen’s shoes, his nose touching her leg.

Sherlock clapped his hands.

"Ah, and we have found who we were looking for, haven’t we. Good dog, Toby!" Sherlock pulled a tennis ball from his other pocket and threw it across the grass. Toby sped after it at lightning bolt speed, caught it and chewed happily on the ball.

Helen looked crestfallen.

"But I haven’t…"

Sherlock lifted his hand up to silence her and walked over to Elisabeth.

"Could you please tell us why you killed Sarah Poulson?" he asked.

Elisabeth widened her eyes in shock.

"Me? But the dog indicated Helen, didn’t it? It was her scarf, not mine!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"How did you know about the scarf? The piece Toby sniffed was too far away for you to have seen it."

"I… you…"

"Very well put, I am sure the prosecutor will struggle to put up a counter-argument to such a flawless argument. 

Yes, the scarf was Helen’s. You knew she was well-known for wearing it at the theatre, so you stole it the night before. Wearing gloves, so that your fingerprints wouldn’t be left on it. Which also made sure that your scent wasn’t left on it either."

Toby had wandered over to Sherlock, his entire body wagging with happiness as he prodded his nose towards him to get Sherlock to toss the ball again. Sherlock looked down at him, smiled fondly and tossed the ball.  
John looked on in amusement. He didn’t know Sherlock liked dogs that much, it was fascinating to see how his demeanour changed and warmed up as soon as he interacted with Toby.

That little interlude had been enough for Helen and Elisabeth to start arguing between themselves about the whys and hows of the murder and the scarf stealing. Sherlock lost interest and started to walk away.

Lestrade walked up to him.

"Wait! You know that what the dog did doesn’t really count as proof."

"No, but you have what is as good as a confession in front of witnesses. And you can run a DNA test on the piece of scarf." He handed the vial to Lestrade.

"I… yes. Why the dog, though? If we could’ve done the same with a DNA test?"

Sherlock smiled at him.

"Some fresh air, Lestrade. Besides, it was fun. The case was boring and obvious, Toby was the most interesting part of it."

Lestrade shook his head and left with the vial.

John was standing at parade’s rest, smiling at Sherlock.

"You just wanted an excuse to bring the dog, didn’t you?"

"Toby likes to work outdoors in the park. Don’t you, Toby?" Sherlock had knelt down besides the dog, scratching him behind one of his big ears. Toby leaned into the hand, clearly enjoying the attention.

David walked up to them, looking as if he had been greatly entertained. Sherlock quickly got up.

"An interesting display there, I must say. Terrible case, of course, terrible."

"Quite boring, to be honest. But it had its features of interest." Sherlock flashed David a big smile.

"So see you tonight?"

"Yes, as agreed."

David smiled widely, making him look far too young and attractive, John thought.

"Good. See you then." David turned to John and nodded, John nodded curtly back.

Sherlock was already walking away with Toby.

"Wait, Sherlock!"

John jogged after him.

"See you back at the flat later, John. I have to return Toby to his owner."

And with that, he was off.

John was left alone – again. And Sherlock was going out with David tonight – again.

Sherlock could be the biggest git in the universe sometimes. And John himself was the second biggest git in the universe for allowing it, he thought miserably.

It wasn’t far from Regent’s Park to Baker Street, so John decided to walk home. He needed some time alone, he needed to think.

Sherlock seemed to be getting along quite well with David. How far it would go no one knew, but if it didn’t work out between them who’s to say Sherlock wouldn’t date someone else later? Now that he had discovered the joys of dating, maybe he was open to meeting more men if this first experience didn’t work out.

And whomever Sherlock ended up with, David or someone else in the future, their relationship would never be the same. John was sure that if Sherlock actually got into a relationship with someone, he would leave. He wouldn’t be able to sit around as the fifth wheel. Just the thought of seeing a picture of Sherlock standing arm-in-arm, smiling, with Blonde McYoungandHandsome in The Guardian made John feel queasy.

He took a slightly longer route home, lost in thoughts. He walked past the London Business School and headed towards Baker Street.

The reason why he had never seriously tried to flirt, or broach the subject of a potential romantic interest with Sherlock, was the fear of rejection and thus their relationship never being the same again.

But if that were to happen anyway, what did he have to lose?


	4. You have options

Sherlock wasn’t home yet when he arrived. Good, he needed a battle plan.

John felt almost ashamed for his moping and whining last night. Wasn’t he a soldier? Time to fight for what he wanted instead of allowing someone else to step in from the sideline and snatch Sherlock right from under his nose.

Well… slightly odd way to frame it, seeing as Sherlock was the one deciding who he wanted to be snatched by.

Or something.

John decided to stop that train of thought. He was wondering how this conversation would go when he managed to tangle himself in a mess even in his own mind.

He heard the click from the door and Sherlock came striding up the stairs. 

"Just taking a quick shower," he said and disappeared into the bathroom.

John plumped down in his chair, restlessly drumming his fingers. Now that he was here, he was at a bit of a loss. He knew what he felt, but what would he say? How should he say it? Fighting for Sherlock against murderous bandits would have been easier than this.

Perhaps he should just leave it? Maybe it wouldn’t work out with David, and Sherlock would be convinced again that dating wasn’t for him and they could go back to status quo. Was he rocking the boat for nothing?

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was done and came into the living room. His curls were still damp from the shower, and the top button of his white shirt was unbuttoned. He was struggling with his cuffs.

John thought he had never seen anything more gorgeous in his life. He lifted his chin, steady as a rock as always when faced with stress, and got up from the chair.

"Here, let me," he said. He carefully buttoned the cuffs. He then took one step closer as he straightened Sherlock’s collar and brushed his fingers gently through his curls. Sherlock was staring at him, baffled. He didn’t say anything, which was unusual in itself, but neither did he scoff or draw away. John took that as an encouragement.

He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock straight in the eye.

"If you want to go out with David, I won’t stop you. But I want you to know that you have options."

With that, he leaned in and gave Sherlock a very brief and gentle kiss.

Sherlock stared at him, his mouth slightly open. In other circumstances, John would be thrilled to be able to leave Sherlock speechless. But now, it just made him feel slightly sad.

He withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s curls and took a step back. He had said what he wanted to say. As he turned to walk away, Sherlock grabbed him by his arm and tugged him back.

John looked up at him in surprise.

Sherlock was smiling widely. He put one arm behind John’s neck and leaned in for another kiss. This time they kissed properly, their arms wrapping around each other and John couldn’t believe this was happening.

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock gave a huff of laughter.

"Finally," he said, slightly out of breath. "You are slow to catch up, John."

John shook his head.

"Me? What about David?"

"Sod David."

"But… you spent the night with him…"

"No, I didn’t. After a boring dinner and a – from my side, at least – very superficial goodnight peck, I retired to one of my network’s location for the night."

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

"You what…?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, managing to make the gesture seemed fond.

"I knew I was attracted to you a long time ago. I suspected you felt the same, but I wasn’t sure. So I needed more data."

John felt the experiences from the past – was it only 24 hours? – shifting around in his head until nothing made sense.

"You… used David to make me jealous?"

"As I said, I needed more data."

"Sherlock, that’s more than a bit not good."

"You would have wanted me to have sex with David before breaking off with him?"

"No, of course not! It’s just… you shouldn’t…"

Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and shook him lightly.

"You’re endearingly quaint, John. David got to take a selfie with me and brag on Instagram that he was on a date with Sherlock Holmes. He’s thrilled. So it didn’t work out after that – he’ll live."

John was feeling delirious as he felt a wild grin slowly spread across his face.

"So. Sod David?"

"Sod him. Oh, that reminds me. I have to, sadly and with much regret tell him, that this isn’t working out. It’s not him, it’s me et cetera… Perhaps you should type it for me, John, you know these things better than I do."

John swatted him playfully.

"You clean up your own mess."

Sherlock smiled as he was typing.

"So… since I’m already dressed… dinner?"

John beamed.

"Starving."


	5. Epilogue

It was Christmas Eve. The snow was falling outside the windows of Baker Street. Sherlock and John were getting into the Christmas spirit for once. The flat was filled with festive and colourful decorations, Christmas dinner had been enjoyed along with Mrs. Hudson’s company, and they were now enjoying drinks while Sherlock played Christmas carols on his violin.

Sherlock ended his final carol with a flourish of his bow, and John and Mrs. Hudson smiled and clapped. Mrs. Hudson, slightly tipsy, gushed over the boys about what a wonderful evening they were having, before she excused herself for the bathroom.

As she walked, slightly unbalanced, out of the living room, Sherlock and John looked at each other and grinned.

"I’m surprised Mycroft hasn’t kidnapped me into his black car and given me the "hurt him and I’ll kill you" speech yet, " John said.

"He’s going for the even more melodramatic approach. This time it will be a helicopter, he just needs time to requisition one first."

The both laughed. John had a sip of his drink and noticed that Sherlock had turned serious.He got up from his chair and approached John in a way he could only think of as predatory.

"I haven’t given you my Christmas gift yet," he said, his voice dark.

John looked up at him in mild surprise.

"Didn’t know you did such trivial things as exchanging Christmas gifts," he teased. "Besides, it’s only Christmas Eve."

"Regular gifts are boring. So are regular Christmas traditions. And so I haven’t bought you anything. However, this year I thought I’d give you…"

He leaned over and whispered the rest of the sentence in John’s ear.

John could feel himself going red all the way up to his hair roots. He stared at Sherlock, shocked.

"But we haven’t even… you would do that?"

Sherlock grinned like a Cheshire cat, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

"Merry Christmas, John."

John hurried to compose himself as Mrs. Hudson came tottering back into the living room. She thanked them again for the lovely evening, kissed them both on the cheeks before retreating back to 221A.

"Oh," John said, looking at his watch. "I haven’t given you your gift either. Sit down," he said and pointed towards Sherlock’s armchair.

Sherlock sat down, looking slightly puzzled.

"But it’s only Christmas Eve, John," he teased.

John grinned. "I know. Won’t be a mo’."

He hurried down the stairs, just in time for the man who was waiting outside as they had agreed. After a quick chat John received the gift, wished the man a "Merry Christmas!" and closed the door.

He walked quietly up the stairs until he could see Sherlock. He was still sitting in his chair, craning his neck to see   
where John was at.

That’s when John let go of Toby. As soon as the dog saw Sherlock he bounced happily towards him and straight up into his lap.

Sherlock caught Toby automatically. He smiled at the dog and accepted the dog’s eager greeting before turning to look at John in confusion.

"What…?"

John couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them.

"I had a talk with Toby’s owner, Mr. Pitt. Or should I say – previous owner. Toby is retired as a service dog for the police, Pitt is already waiting for a new puppy to train. So he’s yours now."

Sherlock gaped at John for several seconds before quickly collecting himself. He leaned his head into Toby’s. John could see he wanted to hide his face for a moment. He felt himself bursting with warmth towards this lovely man.

"Oh, and one more thing…"

Sherlock looked up as John took out a suitcase and opened it. Inside were rows of vials and boxes.

"Seeing as Toby isn’t in service anymore, there are no more restrictions as to what scents he can be trained to detect. So I got a few vials of blood, could be useful on cases…" He pointed at a small cooler inside the suitcase.

"Also," he pointed again, this time at a row of vials. "We couldn’t get all 243 different types of ash, but we got a good starting sample of 30 different ones. Thought it could make a nice challenge for you between cases – how many different types can you train him to detect?"

He pushed the suitcase towards Sherlock, who was staring at its contents. He looked like a child who had been given the keys to a toy store. He looked up at John, his eyes slightly moist. John beamed at him.

Toby had recognized the suitcase and hopped off Sherlock’s lap and was already sniffing eagerly into it, his tail wagging excitedly.

Sherlock got up. He didn’t say anything, but went over to John and gave him a long, tight hug. John hugged him tightly back.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said warmly.


End file.
